


Hope

by derryday



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Luke Skywalker, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Mid-Return of the Jedi, Mild Gore, Minor Injuries, Prosthesis, Protective Darth Vader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryday/pseuds/derryday
Summary: In which Luke, captured by bounty-hungry smugglers on his way back from Dagobah, decides to put his trust in his father.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 20
Kudos: 213
Collections: 2020 Star Wars Luke & Vader Winter Exchange





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AluminumFoil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AluminumFoil/gifts).



> This is my first-ever fic exchange and I'm very happy that I got to participate (and that I found an awesome crowd of SW fans on Discord besides). Thank you again to SilverDaye for letting me slide in although I missed the sign-ups due to an epic migraine. It's much appreciated!
> 
> Dear AluminumFoil, I really hope you enjoy this fic. ♥ From your likes, I used: "angst, fluff, whump, h/c, someone is sick or injured, heart to heart talks, Luke is captured," and "Don't leave". I also _somewhat_ used your prompt about prosthetic hands, but took it in a different direction that I hope is acceptable to you.
> 
> A few additional notes:  
> • Timeline: set during RotJ, after Luke witnesses Yoda's death on Dagobah.  
> • Needing to stay awake when (mildly) concussed his mostly a myth, and I'm sure Vader knows this, he's just being overprotec-- I mean, cautious until Luke is properly medicated.  
> • It was [KaelinaLovesLomaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelinaLovesLomaris/pseuds/KaelinaLovesLomaris) who first coined the term 'dark star' re: Vader's Force presence, and I am using it with permission & great respect.  
> • Many thanks to [liz_mo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_mo/pseuds/liz_mo) for the beta!

"A simple flight," Luke muttered, pausing to wipe sticky blood off his temple. "Just meet us at this rendezvous point, they said."

The ship swayed unpleasantly. Something had started to clang and scrape in its underbelly a minute ago... though perhaps it was just Luke's ears ringing. He had hit his head again when the ship had lurched into hyperspace.

He wormed his fingers deeper into the exposed wiring in the palm and heel of his prosthetic hand. Sharp edges scratched at his skin and he winced, but finally managed to pinch the elusive bundle of wires he'd been digging around for. 

He'd torn the synthskin open with his teeth. It'd left a rubbery taste in his mouth and a sick feeling in his gut. He'd lived with the prosthetic for months now, but it _looked_ like a real hand, and biting it open had left him dizzy and nauseated.

"Just be at these coordinates at that time after Dagobah, they said– shouldn't be too complicated for _Commander_ Skywalker..."

He had to stop for a moment to breathe, staring hard at the motionless fingers. The artificial nails were scuffed and torn, but he'd managed to pry the rusted panel off the wall, exposing the mechanics of the door controls. He studiously did not look at what his flesh hand was doing.

Luke gulped in air. When he blew it out, he yanked hard on the bundle of cables. Sharp pain shot up his arm, followed by a stomach-turning pull in his palm, and then the wires were free.

He leaned his hot forehead against the wall, breathing through his teeth. Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck. The wires were damp and slippery between his fingers; the prosthetic required lubricant to work smoothly. The moisture was warm. It felt too much like blood.

When he got to work on the door, his forehead had left a bloody imprint on the wall. It dried to reddish-brown as he fiddled one-handed with the exposed controls. His vision swam a little. His prosthetic throbbed ominously--he'd done a poor job at numbing the artificial nerves. 

The wiring from his hand looked modern and sleek in the cobbled-together mess of the door controls. Luke pinched cables and jury-rigged bypasses and swore under his breath, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his head, and finally the door creaked open, sliding back into the wall with a groan of overtaxed metal.

The dingy hallway was empty. Some of the lights flickered unsteadily. There were no cameras Luke could see; the smugglers hadn't even left any guards in front of his cell. 

Some Jedi he was, getting captured by amateurs. Once his friends found out what had waylaid him, Leia would scold him and Han would laugh, and Chewie would give him a long, judgmental stare, but then snicker and ruffle his hair.

He'd been careless, distracted by the strange hollow that Yoda's death had left in the Force. Yet, he'd also remained buoyed by Han's successful rescue and the bright, incredulous joy of having a sister--a family. 

A _father,_ even, just barely within his reach.

No matter what Ben had said, Luke _would_ get Vader back. He'd find a way to talk to him, help him overcome the roiling, agonizing conflict he'd sensed on Bespin...

He'd been unaware of the calculating stares that followed him at the refueling station. He hadn't heard the warning tremor in the Force until he'd already been hit in the stomach with a stun baton, and the butt of a blaster slammed into his temple.

Luke was almost at the end of the narrow corridor when the ship reverted to realspace. The floor shuddered and bucked. The jolt threw him unceremoniously forward and he smacked into the far wall with a strangled yelp. 

The gash on his temple throbbed and oozed more blood. Luke groaned, dizzy and sick. There was a muffled screech from the engines and a rattle that died quickly, followed by the stench of burned rubber.

Silence. Then a muffled shout rang through the ship. "That _kriffing_ hyperdrive!"

Luke only just managed to cram himself into a small storage compartment. It was a good thing he was wearing black; if he'd been in his orange flight uniform, they would have seen him through the gap in the dented door. 

He held his breath, his heart pounding hard against his ribs, as rapid footsteps went past his hiding spot. 

"--third time this week!" one of the smugglers snarled. Muffled scraping came from somewhere in the ship's innards. "The first thing I'll buy from that boy's bounty is a new hyperdrive for this pile of bolts!"

A second man sighed tiredly. "Why not buy an entire new ship?" he asked dully, in the tones of someone who'd made the same argument multiple times.

The first smuggler bristled. "I told you, she's an heirloom!"

Luke rested his aching head against the wall. His stomach settled slower than he would've liked; perhaps he really was concussed. 

They'd taken his lightsaber and blaster, but he was not quite defenseless yet. He'd gotten out of the cell, and the next step was to remain hidden until they landed somewhere and he could escape.

He pulled his forehead away from the wall with a wet smack, then clumsily wiped the blood away with his sleeve.

Taking off his left boot was surprisingly difficult one-handed. The tight leather did not seem to want to slide off. Finally, Luke was able to pry his spare communicator out of the hollowed-out sole. 

The screen had cracked but was still working. Some of the buttons felt loose under his fingers. He carefully keyed in Artoo's comm frequency and held his breath while the call went out, then let out a relieved sigh when it connected.

"Artoo," he whispered. "Artoo, do you read me?"

The connection was patchy, scratching with static. Muffled beeps came from the other end. The comm automatically translated Artoo's binary into writing that scrolled across the cracked screen in pale blue. 

_'Luke! Where are you? Are you alright?'_

"I'm okay," Luke whispered. He strained his ears to hear despite the faint ringing his aching head still produced, listening for any movement outside the compartment. "Got captured by smugglers when I tried to pay for our fuel."

Artoo was silent for a moment. Then a series of wails and screeches came through, distorted by the tiny speaker. Luke looked at the translation scrolling past and smiled to himself. "I'm sorry, buddy. I know, I know."

Artoo made the electronic equivalent of an annoyed huff, but stopped swearing. _'Where are you? I cannot triangulate your position. The smugglers may be using scramblers, or your communicator is broken.'_

Luke mouthed a silent Huttese curse. "I don't know," he whispered. A long rasp of static came from the comm. "Can you--"

A beep, then another, chopped apart by an unhealthy mechanical whine. _'--losing signal-- weakening connection--'_

Luke frowned. He shook the little device and heard something clatter inside. "What?" he hissed. His flesh fingers were sweaty and slipped on the buttons as he tried to refresh the call. "Artoo! Do you read--?"

"Hey!"

The door was yanked open. In the dark, even the weak hallway lamps were blinding. A stab of pain shot through Luke's skull. One of the smugglers glared down at him.

Luke reached for the Force, but it was like trying to wield a blaster with bulky oven mitts. He caught a few threads of energy, but his head throbbed so fiercely that white and red lightning burst across his vision. Rough hands closed around his arms and yanked him out into the hallway.

The smuggler who'd found him was going gray at the temples, deep lines marking his forehead. His mechanic overalls were smeared with grease and singed at the sleeves, still smoking faintly from his attempts to fix the hyperdrive.

He gave Luke a disgusted look, slapped cuffs around his wrists, and wasted no time dragging him back to his cell.

"Thought you could escape, you little brat, huh?" he said to Luke, though he did not seem to expect an answer. "You Rebels are all the same, thinking you're hot shit just because you fired on a TIE fighter once..."

When he was back in his cell, now cuffed to a metal pipe after the man had spotted the mess he'd made of the door controls, Luke released a deep sigh. 

He hated to admit it, but he was starting to feel a tickle of fear. These smugglers were likely headed to the nearest Imperial outpost for his bounty. Depending on where they took him, he might or might not have the resources to get away...

He bit his lip, trying to stay calm despite his hammering heart. He could not let himself get brought to the Emperor. He just _couldn't._ If he was to have any chance of saving his father, he had to stay far away from Palpatine.

Resolve came to his aid, like the spinning needle of an old-fashioned compass pointing north. Luke sighed in relief, sagging against the cold pipe. That same Dewback-headed stubbornness he'd felt on Dagobah solidified in him, forthright and unbending.

The matter was simple, really. He refused to follow Ben's instruction and kill his own father, and he would not allow the Emperor to catch him. He _had_ to get off this ship.

He was Darth Vader's only hope.

Luke sat up as much as he could. It was only now that he realized his boot had been left in the storage compartment, along with his broken communicator. It was hard to feel like a dignified Jedi with one socked foot and a painful bruise on his temple.

Well, full-fledged Jedi or not, his father's life depended on him. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. This would be a gamble, but he had no choice.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the way his balance tilted in the darkness behind his lids, and focused on his bond with Vader.

Before, Luke had thought that mental connections took years or decades to grow. Only a single thread had tied him to Ben, thin as gossamer, and Luke had barely felt it when it'd snapped with Ben's death. The master-and-student bond with Yoda had been only a little stronger; that place in his mind now felt cold and deserted.

His bond with Vader had formed easily, though. It'd all but sprung into existence, similar to the instant, warm familiarity that connected him to Leia. Their Skywalker blood called to its own: the duel on Bespin had been enough to link father and son. 

If someone had asked Luke what it felt like, he would have described it like discovering a new piece of furniture in a well-known room: blending into the familiar surroundings, only noticed when focused on.

That pull in the back of his mind had lain dormant for months, except for the odd impulse and floating sense of Vader. Luke couldn't discern his moods or read his thoughts. It was like a heart monitor, a steady but simplified trickle of awareness that only informed him that his father was alive.

He seized hold of those threads now. They seemed to twang at his touch like a stringed instrument. Luke sent tentative tendrils of inquiry into his end of the bond. He tugged on the connection, a feeling not unlike knocking on an old-fashioned door to request entry.

Luke laid his aching head onto his pulled-up knees. His prosthetic hand had gone numb again, a lump of inert matter at the end of his wrist. Though he spoke only in his mind, he pulled in a deep breath, bracing himself.

_'Father?'_

* * *

The moment Vader's shuttle dropped out of hyperspace, Luke's mind filled with his presence: a dark, overbearing cloud, radiating an ominous warmth. It was not altogether a reassuring feeling, but neither did he find it as terrifying as he'd thought.

Luke stood between two smugglers, his hands cuffed in front of him and the barrel of a blaster digging into his back. They'd set down on a small, forested planet; perhaps, if Luke hadn't been so dizzy, he might have been able to pinpoint where they were. 

Vader's shuttle was a streamlined, modern ship, painted gray-white. The pilot steered it confidently through the lengthening afternoon shadows, setting it down in the middle of the clearing. It looked like it'd just come off an assembly line. The sleek, long wings folded upwards as the landing gear dug deep into the muddy ground.

Three Stormtroopers came down the ramp. The fading daylight glinted off their helmets. There was something subtly different about them, an odd quality to the texture of their thoughts-- Luke squinted, trying to focus.

"Hand over the prisoner," said the one in the middle, without so much as a greeting. His mind radiated calm determination.

The man to Luke's right, a balding man with an impressive gut hanging over the waist of his trousers, waved his blaster impatiently. "Credits first!" he snarled.

"Yeah," said the smuggler who'd found Luke's hiding spot, jeering. He raised his blaster, tapping the cold barrel against Luke's temple. "Give us the bounty, or your little Rebel here will--"

The troopers shot them. Luke hadn't even seen them draw their blasters. Two quick flashes of light later, the smugglers dropped to the ground. The larger man slumped onto his back almost gracefully, his head tilting back limply. The other one crumpled into a heap.

Luke's ears rang from the blaster fire. He had barely begun to stumble backwards in shock, his bound hands flailing out in front of him, when two Stormtroopers seized him by the elbows. 

He hadn't seen them move either. He said, "Hey..." in a weak protest, but they took a firm hold of his upper arms and marched him across the clearing and aboard the shuttle.

They never said a single word to him. More blaster fire came from outside. The smugglers' ship went up in flames, casting an orange glow into the shuttle's sleek interior. Luke cringed as he heard cut-off shouts and screams from inside. 

A wave of heat buffeted his back. The roar of an explosion was abruptly muffled when the ramp closed. Then there was silence, only interrupted by the muted hum of the shuttle's powerful idling engines.

* * *

Luke had heard of the 501st before, but never encountered them personally. In his experience, most Stormtroopers were dumb as duracrete, and he hadn't thought Vader's legion to be an exception. He had also assumed they'd be dropping like flies and had to be replaced all the time, since it was widely known that the man did not tolerate incompetence.

These soldiers were different. Luke stumbled along between them, his feet beginning to drag, but he tried to look at them through his sixth sense, his mind bumping up against theirs like flotsam. 

Their thoughts felt orderly and purposeful. Each of the souls aboard had a task, and though there was a distinct berth around the radiating dark star of Vader's presence, they did not seem openly afraid of their commander.

The shuttle rose off the ground with a barely perceptible tremor. Luke tripped over his own feet, almost staggering into a wall. The Stormtroopers did not jeer at him; one just firmed his old on Luke's elbow, as much of a restraint as a support.

They passed down a narrow, well-lit corridor. Luke squinted and cringed, struggling to ignore the deep throb the lights produced behind his eyes. A door opened to his left, and then the troopers ushered him silently into a-- 

Well. It wasn't a cell. The door did lock with an audible click, leaving Luke alone and effectively imprisoned. But the troopers had taken the cuffs off, and there was no bare metal cot waiting to chill him to the bone once he gave in to exhaustion. 

Two low, comfortable-looking couches stood by the far wall instead. He hadn't felt the jump into hyperspace, but the large window was swirling blue-white. There was another door to his left, perhaps leading to a refresher. It was a far cry from the dingy cell on the smugglers' ship.

There was no way he could pry off this door's control panel. Luke staggered to the nearest couch instead and sat down heavily, relieved when he could take some weight off his wobbly legs.

The makeshift anesthetic job he'd done on his hand was wearing off. Shooting pains radiated up to his elbow. The sensors around the ruined synthskin were sending haphazard signals as they struggled to parse the ragged tear in his palm. Luke's wrist felt raw and sore where he'd disturbed the wiring.

He leaned his head against the back of the couch and shut his eyes. Though he was on an Imperial shuttle, he allowed himself a slow sigh of relief. At least he'd dodged the Emperor for now...

And there was something about Vader's presence that-- set a part of him at ease, somehow. Maybe it was just the Force bond that marked Vader as family, lulling Luke into a false sense of security. But that hunted weight on his shoulders had lightened as soon as he'd stepped onto the shuttle's ramp.

There was a chance that Vader wouldn't hurt him. He could have killed Luke on Bespin, several times over. Instead, painful, wrenching conflict had torn at his father; Luke might not have had a lot of training at the time, but he'd been able to sense that much.

His thoughts blurred as he dozed. He thought he felt Vader moving, traversing the ship to come to him, though perhaps he was half-dreaming. He got an impression of shields as firm as polished durasteel, pulled up high to guard against any intrusion...

There was a faint tremor in the bond, though, letting through phantom impressions. A surge of feeling that wasn't his left an imprint on Luke's mind: incredulity that Luke was _here,_ on this shuttle, well within reach after months of chomping at the bit while the Emperor kept him busy with unrelated missions. Relief that Luke had contacted him, mingled with worry over his condition...

A last impulse of cooling rage at the smugglers. And the fierce desire to _see_ Luke, truly see him, not just in a dark carbon-freezing chamber or blurry snapshots in his ISB file. To _look_ at his son, even through the red tint that the cursed mask gave his vision...

It was the hiss of the opening door that jolted Luke back awake. He sat up too fast, groaning when pain pierced his head, and touched his flesh fingers to his bruised temple, where fresh blood was still welling slowly.

Vader all but tripped across the threshold, one hand just beginning to reach out before he froze. The first thing he said to Luke was, "You are concussed. You must not sleep without proper medication."

Luke snorted despite himself. Whatever he had expected his father's first words to be upon their first meeting since Bespin, those weren't it.

They looked at each other. Vader had stopped right beyond the door, only just far enough into the room to allow it to close behind him. The gusty hiss of his respirator filled the silence. 

It was, Luke realized, the first time they'd been this close without lightsabers igniting, or blaster shots echoing off the walls. 

His father was _tall._ He towered over Luke by almost a foot, imposing and broad-shouldered. A mountain of a man, he would have been intimidating even without the mask. The black lenses were impassive; Luke's own distorted expression looked back at him. There was no way to see his father's eyes.

As Luke watched, Vader settled his hands on his belt. The black-gloved fingers twitched a little, clenching, a nervous gesture Luke would not have expected from a Sith lord...

Or maybe Luke was seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe his self-assigned mission to save his father clouded his judgment. 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Sudden anxiety churned in his stomach. Now that he was here, just a few paces away from his father, the confident determination he'd felt on Dagobah seemed far out of reach. 

How was he going to convince his father to return to the Light, when he had no idea what had made him fall in the first place? And Vader didn't _know_ him. He had no reason to be swayed by the stranger Luke was to him. 

A lump formed in Luke's throat. He stared silently up at the mask. He had to start talking _now._ There was no way to tell how long they had until the Emperor melted out of the shadows to claim him--

"The Emperor is not here," Vader said.

Luke blinked at him, torn between surprise and affront. "Are you reading my mind?"

A small stir of amusement radiated from Vader's presence. "No, but you are broadcasting so loudly that I would have to shore up my shields in order not to hear you. Have you learned nothing?"

\--Just like that, Luke's heart clenched and sank again. He cleared his throat. "My training was... cut short."

If Vader's composure was smooth and impenetrable, Luke's shields were shot through with cracks, like the badly welded-together hull of a ship that'd encountered one too many enemy laser cannons. He struggled to keep his face impassive.

Vader paused. Luke got the feeling of being assessed through the Force, though perhaps also through his father's eyes. The mask hadn't so much as tilted, but Luke felt Vader's gaze on him, and it was then that Luke realized he still wore only one boot. The other one had been incinerated with the smugglers' ship. 

The questioning Force tendrils drew back from their bond. "I sense that you will not tell me who trained you," Vader said.

Luke allowed himself a small, grim smile. "Correct."

Vader sighed, an odd mix of the respirator's regular breaths and a mental impression of mild exasperation. The machine probably couldn't allow Vader to truly sigh. "Very well," he said, and turned back to the door right before it opened again.

A silver protocol droid was standing on the other side. It pushed in a hovercart, then stepped back so the door could shut again, all without a single word exchanged. 

The cart was laden with a large black leather bag, nondescript and rectangular. Something shiny and cylindrical was lying on top of it, and it was only when Vader picked it up that Luke realized it was his lightsaber. 

His heart jolted, a hot-cold rush shooting through him. He'd thought the lightsaber lost, destroyed with the smugglers' ship--and now Darth Vader was holding it instead. Luke cringed, bracing himself for the crunch of metal and a shower of green shards as the crystal broke under Vader's Force-enhanced grip...

A nervous squirm woke in his gut, seeping preemptive shame. He'd done his best with the lightsaber, he really had, and until now he'd thought that Ben would have approved.

But now, watching Vader look at his lightsaber, he felt like an impostor, a hapless boy playing at being a Jedi knight of old. His work was probably subpar, worse than the efforts of even the youngest students his father had trained with in the days of the Old Republic.

The tight ache was back in his throat. A Sith lord's opinion of his work shouldn't have mattered, but-- well, it did. A part of him wilted in anticipation of criticism or even derision. Deep down, he longed for his father's approval or even his praise. 

Vader said, "I see you built your own weapon." Luke felt his curiosity, his longing to ignite the blade and see which color crystal Luke had chosen, noting the differences and similarities to the design of Anakin Skywalker's old lightsaber...

Instead, Vader tossed it over to him, slowing its flight so Luke, even injured as he was, had a chance of catching it. It fell into his lap, and Luke stared at his father in surprise and some trepidation.

Did Vader seriously expect Luke to duel with him now, like this? The bruise on his temple throbbed in time with his pulse. His arm hurt too, and he was sure that if he tried to fend off Vader's red blade now, his prosthetic would not respond.

"I will not fight you, young one," Vader said.

"Oh," Luke said dumbly. He couldn't help but relax; truth rang out calm and clear from his father's end of their bond. "Then why...?"

A quiver of something raced along behind Vader's shields, like silvery fish seen through the surface of a still pond, their fins only just disturbing the surface: a sharp sting of regret.

"I thought you might feel more at ease with your lightsaber close at hand," Vader said coolly. He gave no outward sign of the pained remorse Luke had sensed, taking full advantage of the monotony of his vocoder. He turned briskly to the cart and picked up the bag. 

"What's that?" Luke asked, instantly wary. He stared at the bag, trying to make sense of its dimensions. "An interrogation droid?"

A wave of revulsion washed down the bond, followed by cold horror. _"No,"_ Vader said, almost snarling. He yanked the bag open to reveal shining tools and parts, wrenches and chips and differently-sized picks--a plethora of mechanical equipment.

Vader took a step back. His hands went back onto his belt. His shields were impeccable again, a blank wall that let through nothing. All he said was, "Your prosthetic is damaged."

Luke looked down at his hand. His wrist and arm still hurt, a deep, wounded ache. Wires and cables shimmered through the hole in his palm.

Vader made a curt gesture. The Force followed his call, and the bag floated over to Luke, thumping down on the floor with a weighty clang. Then he rounded the other end of the couch, his cape fanning out behind him.

Luke's stomach clenched into a nervous fist with Vader so close, but he managed not to scoot away. Vader passed him, dragging behind himself a rush of metallic-scented air, then sat down on the opposite end of the other couch, giving Luke as much room as he could. 

The respirator seemed loud in the shuttle's humming silence. Luke stared at his father for a few seconds, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He had a strange urge to giggle. He'd never seen Darth Vader just... _sit._ Even on the rare HoloNet transmissions that'd made it through to Tatooine, he'd always been standing, tall and imposing behind the Emperor's chair.

Luke forced himself to look away. He pulled the bag closer instead, looking over the tools.

The first thing he picked out was an interrupter chip. He pried open the control panel, wincing as his shaking flesh fingers gouged more dents into the synthskin. A slightly singed scent rose from the internal components in his wrist.

It took him a while to wedge the chip where it was supposed to go. Its silicone edge grated against something sensitive, and Luke hissed a curse, pressing his elbow hard against his thigh when his wrist twitched uncontrollably from the jumbled feedback. 

Vader's end of their bond didn't quite flinch along with him, but there was a faint vibration in the Force around him. It wasn't unlike the subvocal hum in someone's throat when they prepared to speak.

Finally, the chip's indicator light flickered a reluctant green. The pain in the remaining nerves in his arm faded, and Luke sighed in relief.

He had to admit that the tools were exquisite. They looked brand new, shining in their bed of foam, ready to be used. He selected the smallest probe and wedged it into the tear in his palm, trying to expose more of the ruined wiring.

His flesh fingers were sweaty and unsteady. A slow dizziness spun the edges of his vision, nausea hollowing out his stomach. He wondered vaguely where Vader had gotten these tools. Had he stacked the shuttle to the brim with medical and mechanical supplies, worried about the state he'd find Luke in?

A strange image rose in him, like the memory of an oversaturated holo. His younger self, floppy-haired, just fourteen or fifteen, living with Vader on Imperial Center... opening a birthday gift just like this, a mechanic's kit, chosen carefully by a parent who was not hurting for money...

Luke took a shaky breath. If he'd grown up with Vader, would his father have known him? Or would he have delegated his care and education to an army of tutors and nurse droids, coolly indifferent to the little life under his tutelage? 

Would he have known to give Luke tools for his birthday, or would he have bought some meaningless pricey trinket?

It was a strange window into what might have been. An ambiguous shiver of mingled fear and longing came with it, raising goosebumps on the back of Luke's neck. 

He was no longer a lonely boy with his head in the clouds, teased for being an orphan, yearning for parents he'd never known. He no longer lay awake at night, wondering why he'd been abandoned, pestering Aunt Beru for stories about his father when Uncle Owen wasn't listening... 

The heaviness in his heart grew, settling into a burning ache. Vader's mere presence tugged at it, like an old scar stinging when the weather turned. Luke might be 23 now--but a fragment of that boy was still there, latching feverishly on to the Force bond, desperate to know what Vader thought of his lightsaber...

He stared at his flesh fingers, where an unnoticed smear of blood had dried brownish red. He wanted to say-- something, anything. A comment on the tools, perhaps, or even just a polite inquiry as to why he was being treated as a guest and not a prisoner.

What came out of his mouth instead was, "Why-- why did you never come find me?"

The respirator seemed to have to work harder for a few cycles. Luke cringed at the faint, plaintive note that'd sneaked into his tone. What was he _doing?_

He didn't dare look at his father head on, but he saw the gloved hands clench and unclench. The bond quivered as the iron grip Vader had on his shields slipped a little.

Finally Vader said, biting off each word like something noxious, "I thought you dead along with your... your mother."

"Oh," Luke said. That was what Ben had told him, but it was different hearing it from Vader himself.

Silence. His flesh hand shook. He twisted the probe clockwise, opening the tear further to assess the broken machinery. The interrupter chip wasn't working properly; stings now came through the numbness, along with a scraping sensation produced by confused nerves. 

His father's end of their bond crackled with tension. The mask was tilted away from Luke. Pain clawed at Vader's shields from within, bleeding into their connection until Luke could no longer tell how much of the heaviness in his chest came from himself and which part drifted over from his father. 

The tremor in his flesh fingers grew worse, loosening Luke's hold on the probe. It sprang out of his prosthetic, the gap in the cables slipping shut. Wiring was pulled tight, dislodging the interrupter chip, which clattered to the floor and blinked red in protest. 

Luke cried out at the sudden surge of pain. He clutched at his prosthetic and hissed through his teeth, digging his real nails into his wrist in an attempt to stifle the feedback searing up his arm--

A shadow loomed over him. Luke hadn't heard Vader get up, but he stood before Luke now. He must've all but ran to his side; the edge of his cape brushed Luke's ankle. 

Vader stood frozen, stooped oddly; it took Luke a moment to realize that he'd paused halfway in the act of reaching for him. He said, "Allow me."

Hot stabs radiated from Luke's wrist up his forearm. It was the pain that made him snap, "Why, are you gonna chop it off again?"

Their bond shuddered as though under an unexpected blow. For a moment, Vader's shields thinned, letting through a single searing twist of remorse that made Luke hunch over with a pained gasp, before the steel doors clanged shut again.

Vader took a step back. A few seconds passed in silence. Luke lowered his real hand--when had he pressed his palm to his chest in an effort to soothe the phantom ache there?--and looked up at him warily.

It was hard to tell through the armor, but Vader seemed to square his massive shoulders, bracing himself. He said stiffly, "I... regret the loss of your hand."

Luke gaped at him. Sudden anger burned in his stomach, unexpected and acidic. 

Did Vader also regret all his sleepless treks across the Rebel base, after Bespin? His stilted conversations with Leia as she tried to figure out what had happened to rattle him so? His violent nightmares, the terror and despair that'd held him in their firm grip right after he'd found out about his parentage, tormenting him for months until they'd smoothed out into reluctant acceptance...

Luke didn't realize he'd reached for the Force until he felt it begin to anchor him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and opened himself to the endless, invisible current that ran through him and through his father and lit up every other soul aboard the shuttle. 

A strong, calming stream flowed inside him, soothing the old wound. Luke's chest warmed and unclenched. He released his aggression into the Force, watched it float away on that endless river.

"The loss of my temper was unacceptable," Vader said harshly. He'd taken a step back and half-turned away, his hands balled into fists so tight that the leather gloves creaked in protest. "I did not intend to maim you. I..." 

The Force nudged Luke gently, like a strong current of water. Luke followed its call and reached for his father, stretching out far along their bond. 

The impression he got felt like a speeder thundering past close enough to stir his hair. Regret, guilt, a deep, sympathetic ache like Vader understood intimately what the loss of a limb felt like, and _hated_ that he'd visited that same pain and trauma upon his child... 

Luke sucked in a labored breath. His eyes stung, his nose burning with salt. This was like a gut-punch. He felt his father's pain as his own, much stronger and clearer than the stirs of conflict he'd sensed on Bespin. 

He pulled haphazardly on his shields, an impression like fingers scrabbling hopelessly at brittle wood, struggling to tighten them. The pain dulled, fading along the edges.

Vader subsided into silence. If he sensed Luke's perception of his emotions, he did not show it. He stood stiffly, soldier-like, ready to take any words of hatred and loathing his son might spit at him.

Fresh hope rose in Luke. If Vader had truly been a Sith through and through, remembering Bespin would not have caused him such turmoil. He'd been right. He _would_ save his father, though he did not yet know how; free his mind from the Emperor's clutches and pull him back to the Light.

He let out a shaky breath and held out his prosthetic hand.

The shuttle's engines hummed somewhere below. Vader stared at the tear in the prosthetic's palm. Luke felt his surprise and disbelief, a rolling echo through their connection. It was an odd mirror of Bespin, only it'd been Luke hanging desolately from the end of that spire, and Vader reaching for him...

Perhaps Vader drew the same comparison. Either way, he crossed the distance between them with careful steps, then sat down beside Luke. The couch sank under his weight; he was close enough that the hem of his cape brushed Luke's shin. 

He took Luke's hand carefully between both of his.

The first thing he did was put a new interrupter chip in place, properly this time. He waited a few seconds, then tested its capacity by gently poking Luke's artificial index finger with a set of pliers. "Can you feel this?"

Luke shook his head. His throat felt unexpectedly thick, touched by his father's concern.

Vader was very careful, almost excessively so. After watching him work for a minute or two, prying loose wires gently apart and fishing out the torn ends, Luke was almost sure that he needn't have inserted the chip at all.

Still, he appreciated the persistent numbing signals that were sent into his hand. He hated having his prosthetic manipulated. The sight still turned his stomach, and likely would for a while, if the Alliance's medics were to be believed. The hand did look very lifelike, and sometimes Luke almost forgot it was just a prosthetic, but its care and maintenance always brought back the stark reality that he'd lost his flesh hand and a small part of his forearm.

He glanced at the window. The swirl of hyperspace looked the same as ever, and gave no clue as to where they were headed. "Where are we going?" Luke asked idly, not really expecting an answer.

Vader's skilled hands never faltered. "To a safe place."

Luke stared at him. "The Imperial Palace?" he asked, deliberately provoking.

Vader shook his head. "Bast Castle," he said. "It is a private stronghold of mine, located on Vjun in the Nuiri sector."

Luke blinked, taken aback. He reached out a probing Force tendril, but sensed no lie in Vader's words, only streamlined and straightforward truth like the neat, regular weave of fabric.

"What-- why would you tell me that?"

Vader was prying the broken cables out of Luke's hand, carefully bending Luke's wrist so as not to yank at their moorings. "You asked."

Luke raised his eyebrows. The swollen cut on his temple stung. "So, what, you'll answer any question I have?"

A flicker of-- something drifted past Luke. Reluctant amusement? "Within reason."

Vader secured the torn wiring with a clamp. He cleaned some dried lubricant from the innards of his prosthetic where exposure to the air had made it crusty. Then he turned to the bag and opened a slim compartment, exposing a rich variety of length and thicknesses of spare cables and bypasses.

Luke stared at his father with a distinct sense of unreality. This was the Emperor's right-hand man, a terrifying enforcer. And yet his tinkering was practiced and precise, and he'd just invited a Commander of the Rebel Alliance to ask him questions.

Luke sat up a little straighter, struggling to ignore the pounding ache in his head. "You could have killed me on Bespin, and didn't," he said and jutted out his chin, making it a challenge.

The flare of Vader's roused emotions, shielded as they were, looked to Luke's Force sense like a small eruption of light on a distant horizon. "I had orders to bring you to the Emperor alive."

Luke rolled his eyes; a Sith lord might have been sitting before him, but Luke knew an evasion when he saw one. "Captured, then," he corrected. "You could have captured me. When I fell from the gantry--"

A stronger flare this time: flat, muted anger, with hard-edged regret and remembered terror layered underneath. "You did not _fall._ You let go."

"--you could've restrained me with the Force and pulled me back up." Luke sucked in a breath through his teeth. He almost felt the relentless wind yanking on his hair again, the sick, cauterized agony of his severed hand, the smell of his own burned flesh. "I was so--" 

He hesitated. "--shocked," he said finally, "I would've been unable to resist. If you'd truly wanted to kidnap me then, I would've been easy pickings."

Vader said nothing. Luke licked his lips, trying to work some moisture into his dry mouth. Nervous sweat prickled on the back of his neck; if only his head weren't hurting, perhaps he could have thought more clearly. "You know what I think?"

"You are surely about to tell me." Vader coaxed the torn cables further out of their moorings, deftly sliding a small metal pick into a gap to make room for the fresh wiring. He was still so careful that Luke felt only a small point of pressure in the living part of his arm.

"I think you couldn't bring yourself to force me to come with you," Luke said. His heart thundered against his ribs, hard enough that he felt his pulse in his belly and the backs of his knees. "I think you didn't really want to hurt me then, and you don't want to hurt me now."

There was a long pause. Vader's breathing was almost hypnotic. "You are naive and foolish," his father said at last. There was no heat behind the words, just the monotone of his vocoder. A rote response, delivered without conviction.

Luke let out an exasperated huff. "You aren't denying it," he pointed out.

Vader was silent. He checked if the interrupter chip was still working, then began splicing the fresh wiring into place.

The slow work of Vader's hands was smooth, methodical. He hadn't scanned Luke's prosthetic, but he seemed to know which length and thickness was needed to patch up the damage Luke had done. 

How he could work so delicately with those thick gloves was beyond Luke. The hiss of the respirator never faltered. Vader picked up a slim welding tool, and the stench of molten metal rose from Luke's hand as he patched up the wiring, with such deft skill that Luke barely saw the seams. 

A thought struck Luke suddenly, with a dizzying surge of hope and shyness.

Was this perhaps something they shared? A love for mechanics and engineering? Uncle Owen had only ever called Luke's talent _useful,_ gruffly, with a warning look in Aunt Beru's direction... 

He hadn't liked it when Luke was _too_ good at fixing things, when even crushed equipment was returned to functional in Luke's hands. He'd never said as much, but the wary glances he'd given Luke had spoken for themselves.

Luke sighed. He let his head rest against the back of the couch, blinking against the vague sting in his eyes. Had Owen been wary of his talent because it connected him to Vader?

"Ben said you used to be a good man," he said quietly. He was not sure where the words came from.

Vader did not flinch physically, but he drew back from their contact in the bond. It was only then that Luke realized how close they'd been, the edges of their Force presences mingling. 

"That man is long gone."

"No, he isn't," Luke said. He was fumbling his way through the dark, and could only hope that he said the right things at the right time. "He's right here, fixing my hand."

Vader paused. He leaned back, and Luke felt his eyes on him again. "Luke, if you think that performing basic maintenance on your prosthetic makes up for cutting off your hand in the first place--"

Luke interrupted him. The hesitance he sensed through Vader's shields emboldened him despite the grinding ache in his head. 

"You told me you're not taking me to the Emperor. Was that a lie?"

A short pause. "No."

"And those Stormtroopers," Luke said. "They removed my cuffs, you know. What do you think they thought of that?"

Vader bent back over his hand. He was almost finished; he tested the fresh wiring with a multitool, setting the voltage low and watching each of Luke's artificial fingers twitch in response. "Stormtroopers are not trained to think, young one."

"Okay," Luke said, impatient, "but what if they're wondering why you're taking me to Vjun and not Imperial Center?"

A tangle of exasperation drifted towards Luke, with something more shielded that might have been grudging respect for Luke's tenacity. "The 501st is my legion. They answer to me."

"Not the Emperor," Luke said, testing. He stared at the mask, and realized his eyes were producing a faint shadow of double-vision, blurring the edge of Vader's helmet.

Vader let out a breath that sounded somehow wearier than the others. "Not the Emperor."

Luke sighed and leaned back into the couch. The back of his shirt was damp with sweat. His heartbeat pounded painfully behind his eyes. The verbal sparring tired him. There was-- so much he wanted to say... so many questions he had to ask. 

The protective shell of his hope cracked. A thin thread of burgeoning despair spun tight in his chest. If only his head weren't hurting so much... 

Until a few scant months ago he hadn't even known his father was alive, and a young, unguarded part of him was still reeling. How was he to break the hold that the Dark Side had on Vader, when his composure faltered just when they were in the same room?

His hand twinged and prickled; Vader removed the interrupter chip. He held it for a moment, waiting to see whether Luke would cringe in pain, ready to put it back. Another small gesture that Luke wouldn't have expected from a Sith.

Luke flexed his fingers. The synthskin was still torn, but the mechanics beneath responded instantly to his commands. The deadened prickle of snapped wires was gone, and his fingers moved smoothly, without delay.

He stared up at Vader's mask, and couldn't help how plaintive he sounded when he asked, "Why did you come when I called to you?"

His father looked at him. Again Luke had the strange sensation that their gazes met through the dark lenses of the mask. Vader said simply, "You are my son."

He began to pull away, but Luke lunged for his hand, haphazardly digging his nails into the leather glove. "Father," Luke croaked, though he had no idea what he was going to say. "I--"

He felt the impact of that single word, 'father', like a painful crater in Vader's mind. Luke hissed, flinching back as their connection singed him. A crack ran through Vader's shields. 

Luke hunched over, gasping. He felt Vader's disbelief, the shock of hearing that single word. Regret still, heavy and bitter, exacerbated by his close contact with Luke's prosthetic, a reminder of how he'd maimed his only child. A deep well of rage for the years they'd lost, and a fierce, possessive delight, glowing like a furnace, that Luke was here with him now, safe and relatively unharmed--

Vader didn't exactly yank himself free but he pulled back from the bond. Luke had the impression of someone hastily scooping up an armful of dropped objects. He took a breath and straightened up, struggling to reassemble his composure.

"I would have come for you before, had I known that you'd lived," Vader said. His voice was thready, as quiet as the vocoder allowed it to be. "There is no corner of the galaxy I would not have searched for you."

Luke shivered. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His father spoke slowly, with an insistence that soaked the edge of Luke's awareness in warmth.

"I believe you," he said. It was all he could think to say, and all he could push past the lump in his throat.

Perhaps it wasn't words he would have to rely on. Maybe he didn't need to compose a perfect, heartfelt speech to persuade his father to return to him. It might be enough to just-- _be_ with him, allow himself to be taken to Vjun and see how this would play out, all the while holding stubbornly on to their bond in the Force...

He dropped his head back against the couch, breathing shakily. Vertigo spun through his pounding skull. Luke braced his flesh hand against the couch's cushioning and tried to ride out a surge of nausea.

\--And Vader was tucking the tools away, opening up another compartment on the leather bag. Luke caught sight of medical gauze and Bacta patches in various sizes, a neat array of syringes and vials. Vader selected a short-barreled injector and handed it to Luke.

"What's that?" Luke asked. He squinted at the writing on the side, but couldn't quite make it out through his slight double vision. The barrel was cool against his fingertips, the small needle still capped in plastic.

"A hypo-stim." Vader folded his arms across his massive chest, almost defensively. "It will greatly accelerate the healing rate of your concussion."

"I'm not concussed," Luke said automatically. 

Vader looked down at Luke's flesh hand, which still trembled, then at the swollen cut on his temple. The blood had dried into a thin film that pulled at Luke's skin.

"Okay, fine," Luke muttered, relenting. 

He stared at the stim, hesitant. His Rebel instincts screamed warnings at him; the medication would likely make him sleepy, and it would be the height of recklessness to go to sleep while a captive on Darth Vader's shuttle...

But the texture of his father's presence emitted only concern. So Luke sighed and pried off the plastic cap. He pressed the stim to his neck, holding it there until a cool sensation spread from a small sting of pain. 

His headache cleared with chemically-aided abruptness. His vision swam with sudden, strong vertigo. It felt like the room whirled around him, the couch bucking and swaying like an unruly Bantha.

"Whoa," Luke mumbled. He slumped sideways on the couch, tried to brace himself with his elbow, but ended up flopping onto his side as his arm shook, then crumpled under his weight.

The cushions were a little rough under his cheek, the sturdy fabric meant for sitting on, not resting your head. The couch smelled like laundry detergent and the customary plasticky scent of new furniture. Perhaps Vader had only recently outfitted his shuttle with this room... that would explain the lack of decorations too, though Luke didn't really think his father was the type to hang up paintings...

His consciousness blurred like an out-of-focus hologram. The needle mark on his neck burned a little. Chemicals slipped through his veins, spreading a chilly sensation where his head had used to hurt. The cut tingled and itched as its healing was sped up.

Luke woke up when something was spread over him. For a moment he flinched, trying to bring his right hand up to shield his face, but then he realized it was just a blanket. It was thick and woven, softer than the cushions, and the heavy weight on top of him was primordially comforting.

He heard leather creak, then a sense of growing distance intruded into the bond. Luke pried his eyes open to thin slits.

"Wait," he mumbled, working his jaw to try and remember how to form words. "Don't... don't leave." _Please stay,_ he didn't say, but perhaps Vader heard it anyway, through his hopelessly inept shields.

Vader stood by the door, a blurred black shape. He was silent except for his breathing. Luke felt-- something from him, a warmth mingled with surprise. "Very well."

He settled on the other couch, not all the way on the other end this time. Luke's lids were heavy, but he struggled to keep his eyes open for another moment. There was something odd about his father's silhouette... something was missing. Luke sighed, drawing the blanket up to his shoulder--

And stared down at thick black fabric, bunching between his knuckles. Vader hadn't spread a blanket over Luke; it was his cape.

Luke closed his eyes. His skull seemed to swell in time with his heartbeat, an odd, painless pulse as the stim worked on his concussion. The armorweave was somehow both stiff and soft to the touch. He listened to the clockwork regularity of the respirator, and wondered dimly when, in the past hour, he had come to find the sound soothing.

Perhaps it shouldn't have been this easy to surrender to the stim's influence. He hadn't said even half the things he'd wanted to. He hadn't gotten his father to renounce the Emperor. There was no telling what awaited him on Vjun...

But Luke still felt the same tremor of doubt and conflict in his father that he'd sensed in Cloud City. And that was enough for now.

The leather of Vader's armor shifted as he moved slightly. He was staying, just because Luke had asked him to, although there were probably a million unread datapads and transmissions waiting for the Emperor's right-hand man. 

Luke wanted to tell him that he could sit closer, he didn't mind. But before he could voice the thought aloud or send it along their connection, he sank into sleep to the even cadence of his father's breaths.


End file.
